Life on fast forward

I was pregnant forever.

I mean, seriously, forever. I got pregnant in February 2009 with my son, John Henry, whom we lost at twenty weeks in June. Then two months later, I was pregnant again, this time with Addie. So other than those two months, I was pregnant for thirteen and a half months between that February and May, 2010. Essentially, I had the gestational period of an elephant.

And did those months ever drag by-- especially the ones with Addie, worried, waiting to see what would happen next. It was as if time had simply stopped moving. I did what I could to fill them-- mainly, I spent them obsessively comparing Addie to whatever sized fruit she was supposed to be at the time (a blueberry! A butternut squash!) and forcing Ben to look at pictures of the little Duggar baby, pointing out that if Addie came 14 weeks early, it wouldn't be that bad. The clock became my enemy-- is this thing out of batteries? Is it really only three? How could a day last so long?

But Addie managed to cling to the safety of her little bachelorette pad until 39 weeks, and ever since then, its as if the mouth of time's lazy river has opened up to one of those waterslides that shoot you straight down, no matter how desperately you try to slow yourself, jamming your feet against the sides. Wanting the ride to last a little longer.

I feel now like one of those comically sped-up Benny Hill skits, everyone running through open doors, chasing each other with rolling pins. Work is just two hour intervals between pumpings. Our time in the evenings with Addie is a blur of playtime, cereal, bath and bed. Our time after she falls asleep, a series of tasks-- lunches made, clothes picked out, items washed and put away, and then we collapse.

Addie will be six months old next week, and I find myself longing for that time when life felt so impossibly slow. I think about all the women around the world who conceived the day Addie was born-- they would be six months pregnant now, the finish line in sight. Has this time felt so slow for them? Could I get them to trade me?

She's so big now-- already outgrowing her nine-month clothes, more and more curious about the world around her. I know that there are so many more adventures ahead-- the walking, the talking, the dress-up time and the first day of school-- but I'm not ready to race there just yet.

Tonight, instead of hurrying through our bedtime routine, I decided to lay down with Addie while she fell asleep. She snuggled up next to me, her deep sigh reverberating against my chest, and for just a moment, I felt like things had paused.

Addie's in Vogue

I think it is fair to say that as a child, I was never, ever, ever cool. I think this picture of me, circa 5th grade, will testify:

The photograph mostly cuts off my giant denim purse, which was, no joke, usually filled with large compendiums of Herman cartoons. Because I was a fifth-grader who effing loved one-panel comic strips about loose-jowled eldery men and their kerfrumpety wives.

So it pleases me to no end that, even at five months of age, Addie is already unspeakably cool. I gauge this how I gauge most things in my life-- how many accessories she has that have also been spotted as the accessories of celebrity babies.

For instance, I nearly peed my pants when I saw that she has the exact same blanket as Sandra Bullock's son:

 

 

Also, witness the awesomeness that is her having Sophie the Giraffe, just like whatever this child of Nicole Richie is named:

Clearly, Addie has more style and panache at five months than I managed to garner in all of my 31 years on this planet. Although let me give myself a little credit-- it's not as if she hand-picked these items herself (although to be fair, she actually received the Aden and Anais blanket as a gift from the awesome Denise Philipsen). Does this mean that I am just as stylish and au courant as Sandra and Nicole?

Obviously, yes. Not bad for a girl with a purse full of Hermans.

Excretion Excursion

Before Addie, it would have seemed unthinkable to go to work with another person's vomit on my shirt. Now, it's just a question of how much vomit is acceptable.

In the past five months, I have been pooped on, vomited on, and spat on. I have continued to wear pants soaked with another person's pee for a good three hours after the deed occurred, simply because I knew if I put on different pants they would just be besotted with some other bodily fluid. And once, while holding the baby over my head in the classic airplane pose, she vomited directly into my open mouth.

I was prepared, through years of bad sitcoms with babies tacked on at the end as a desperate ratings grab, for this sudden onslaught of excretions. But what I did not really expect was my total okayness with it. I gave up on burp cloths after the first day or two of Addie's life, too addled with exhaustion or fear of squeezing the baby too hard, a la Lenny's rabbit, to remember to keep one handy. It was what it was: I was going to reek of spoiled milk and pale urine for the foreseeable future.

Tonight, Addie blew a raspberry for the first time-- not just your run of the mill bubble blowing, but a full-on, pursed lip buzzing, leaving my face slicked with a patina of spit. And instead of being grossed out, or running for the washcloth, I just grinned. Because it's really hard to be disgusted by anything that comes from someone so cute. Not that her shit doesn't stink-- just that it's hers.

A mid-term report card

Addie had her four month well-baby check-up the other day, where we were updated on her latest stats-- at nearly eighteen pounds, she is in the 97th percentile for her weight, and at 25 inches, she's in the 67th percentile for her height. The doctor was impressed with her motor skills, particularly her ability to sit unsupported, something other four month old babies only lie around and dream about while they flail pointlessly on their tummy time mats. She also has a giant head for her age, which only goes to enhance my theory that she is some sort of Superbaby that will grow to enslave the entire human race (in the cutest way possible, of course).

So with these stats in mind, I thought I'd review her progress in some other areas as well:

Spoon feeding: B

She definitely gets the concept of spoon feeding. She lunges for the spoon like some sort of crazed lunatic, her mouth agape. It's what to do with the cereal once it is on-board that is the problem. Right now, her solution appears to be to shove it all out of mouth onto her bib with her tongue. But at least the fundamentals are there.

Bouncer Usage: A+

 One would think, watching Addie in action in her bouncer, that I had birthed some sort of weird, half-human half-rabbit, sort of like the one in Donnie Darko, only not terrifying or Patrick Swayze-killing.

Rolling over: B

She is so close to rolling over that I vaguely suspect she's already done it for the Day Care People, based on their very evasive answers when I ask about her progress. She hasn't yet pulled it off at home without our help, but if I find out she's been dogging it this whole time, she is in for a world of hurt. And by hurt in this context I really just mean hugs.

Crib sleeping: C-

Addie doesn't seem to know what to do with the extra room in the crib, so she compensates by rotating herself until she's laying across the width of the crib mattress as opposed to the length. Cute, but problematic down the road, as I'm assuming her future spouse won't be very appreciative of this particular sleep position.

Staying a tiny baby forever: F

No matter how much I explain to her that I need her to remain a teeny tiny baby for the rest of her life, Addie willfully continues growing and expanding her repertoire of skills. It's almost as if she intends to fully grow up and eventually leave my house one day. But I expect her to straighten out and stop growing any day now.

Addie Alive!

When I was a little girl, it devastated my mom that I wasn't into baby dolls. I was more of a fashion doll girl-- Barbie, Lady Lovely Locks (yeah, I just trotted out Lady Lovely Locks, let the reminiscing begin!), anything that had hair that could be brushed, braided, and eventually cut into an extremely unflattering female gym teacher bob. But for some reason, baby dolls just never interested me-- why would I want a toy whose main purpose was to pee on me?

Now that Addie is here, I realize that, even with the fantastical advances in fake infant behavior (they poop now! THEY POOP!), perhaps the main reason baby dolls disinterested me is because they did not accurately depict the many varied actions an actual baby can possess. For instance, if there were an Addie baby doll (which there should be, and which I would market as Addie Alive!), it would be capable of all of the following real-life dolly actions:

• Viciously punching itself in the sides as if it were King Kong
• Super kung-fu hair hank death grip
• Intermittent release of noxious butt fumes
• Random heart-melting sighs of contentedness, especially after the release the aforementioned fumes
• Stealth sock removal skills
• Vicious head-butting action
• Laser-precision spit up aim (particularly when held overhead in a game of Superbaby)

Actually, when I put it that way, it sounds like Addie Alive! would make a much better action figure than a doll. Except for the heart-melting sighs. But I think the ass stink more than balances that out.

Addie Alive! may be hazardous to anyone under the age of three, pets that dare to wander into her range of motion, or people who enjoy having their clothes unsoiled by bodily fluids. Do not use Addie Alive! if you require more than six hours of sleep a night. All accessories, medical bills, foodstuffs and college tuition sold separately at outrageous prices. Allow nine months for delivery.

Addie at Four Months

It seems absolutely impossible that four months ago today, Ben, Addie and I were spending our first night together as a family. It seems impossible that four months have gone by so quickly, and impossible that there was ever a time that she wasn't already here.

But before I devolve into a teary rendition of "Sunrise, Sunset," let me post her official birthday picture. Her cuteness will distract me from the fact that someone has apparently pressed the fast forward button on my life:

See? That face can cure cancer. For reals. Or if not cure it, at least kick the shit out of it:

Oh, snap! Pinned by the sheep! I'll get you next time, foul beast!

My life as a cow

I decided long before Addie was born that I was going to breastfeed, and I don't regret the experience one bit-- it's a fantastic way to bond with my baby, it gives her the nutrients and antibodies that she needs to grow strong and healthy, and it is an excellent excuse to sit on the couch and watch reruns of Glee without having to feel guilty that I'm not accomplishing anything. However, when you both breastfeed and work-- because apparently you can't buy diapers with baby smiles-- you are also required to pump, which is an almost debilitatingly unpleasant experience.

I suppose it could be worse-- I at least have an office I can pump in. Without it, I would be forced to go to the Women's Room at work, which is really just a small room with a shower and a bench in it (why is there a shower at the insurance company where I work? Has there ever been a woman sitting at her desk thinking, "Man! Binding these policies has really caused me to work up a sweat!"). The room is governed by its own set of laws, making it a lactation Thunderdome-- Four boobs enter, two boobs leave.

Even my office, though, is not free from peril-- I have a small window that looks out into the common area, leaving me exposed to gawkers. I ordered blinds, but due to a snafu, they never arrived; too freaked out from fending off an extremely aggressive fellow pumper who attempted to bust in on me during my last visit to the Women's Room, I took matters into my own hands and just taped a bunch of paper over the window:

But as you can see, for reasons beyond even my own understanding, I chose to use paper that was already pre-three-hole-punched, essentially turning my office into a peep booth for any brave soul who dared to put his eye up to it. Sort of like that Madonna video for "Open Your Heart," only instead of getting a glimpse of Madge, you get to see me hooked up to a milking machine. Sexy.

Also, you will find that should you put up a giant wall of holey paper over your common room window, you are basically announcing to the world HELLO! I AM MILKING MYSELF IN HERE! PLEASE ASK ME ABOUT IT! And people will ask you about it-- coworkers, the maintenance guy, and, in fact, the guy I called today to ask why my blinds never showed up ("Oh!" he said. "That's your crazy office!").

I'm not sure it will be much better when the blinds arrive-- yes, it will be classier. But it will also serve as the proverbial Sock on the Door-- Blinds up = stop on by! Blinds down = National Geographic Boobs On Display.

All I know is, three times a day, five days a week, I have to live with the fact that I am, for all intents and purposes, topless at my desk at work, and everyone knows it. Among the people in my department, I refer to the act of pumping as "The Unspeakable," as in "I wish I could help you with this project, but I have to go commit The Unspeakable right now."

After all that work-based nudity, I guess I could use a good shower...

...you know, unless it IS

So hey, remember how I wrote that whole thing about post-partum thyroiditis, and how I probably had that, and it was SO CRAZY because I had all the symptoms and I was so proud of myself for actually realizing that there was something wrong with me, etc? Well, scratch all that, because apparently I DON'T have post-partum thyroiditis; in fact, I called the doctor's office and all of my blood tests came back totally normal. Which is awesome and all, because it means I'm not in the process of blowing out my thyroid, but not awesome, because it means I now have no explanation for my hair loss OR my rash, other than that I am That Gross Woman now.

You know, the one you see in the cafeteria at work, or at the bus stop while you're driving by in your nice, non-rashy car. With the conspicuous bald spot and the bright red welts all over her arms. And you think, oh, wow, look at That Gross Woman.

That is me! I am her! I'm That Gross Woman! Are they going to come and take away my car? Am I going to have to start eating Marie Callander pot pies for lunch every day? Is there some sort of handbook for this? I haven't been this set adrift since my time as That Stupidly Ugly Teenager!

Sometimes, hypochondria, isn't

I don't get sick often, but when I do, I usually assume that it's cancer. This seems like an excellent strategy-- a night or two of freaking out, followed by a resigned evening searching the Internet for acceptable wigs to cover up my inevitable chemo-induced hair loss (sometimes I consider snoods, but I usually reject them as being too Thirtysomething), and then, when I finally find out that I only have a sinus infection, things don't seem so bad.

So this time, when I developed a set of bizarre symptoms-- startling easily, inability to concentrate, vague neck pain, blotchy rash-- I decided to call a doctor. It was probably just stress, or a bad reaction to my new birth control pills (or ringworm! Because of course I spent a frenzied night studying pictures of ringworm on Google) (which I don't recommend, because ringworm is totally gross).

After a brief once-over by the male nurse (which, by the way, I will never stop thinking male nurses are funny), the doctor came in, and I began describing my symptoms to her. Rather than doing the old flashlight-up-the-nose routine, she began subjecting me to some very strange tests involving my reflexes (at which point my brain said CANCER! YOU HAVE REFLEXES CANCER!), and then announced something totally odd: for once, my bizarre symptoms actually meant something.

It turns out that, pending the results of a blood test, I have something called post-partum thyroiditis, which evidently afflicts around 5% of post-partum women (because I'm doomed to excel in every area of life). Even weirder is that this disease has even more symptoms that I have and didn't even know were symptoms, such as rapid weight loss (which I totally just thought was from breast-feeding, so now when people ask why I'm so skinny, I have to tell them it's because I'm a diseased freak, rather than a super-dedicated nursing mom) and unexplained hair loss.

Apparently, while sort of scary-sounding, this problem can be fixed relatively easily with some pills. But it does have one more giant downfall: following this period of hyperthyroidism, which is the source of the weight loss, there is a much longer period of hypothyroidism, which causes rapid weight gain. Farewell, brand-new size eight pants!

But you know what? At least it's not reflexes cancer.

On Hair*

One of the many things I learned during my time as a receptionist at the day spa where I used to work (along with how to pretend to be my boss and attempt to have the title to her father's house changed to her name) (that really happened) is that when you get pregnant, your hair stops falling out. For some reason I stored this information deep in the recesses of my brain, and when I finally became pregnant several years later, I found myself checking the drain obsessively to see if the aesthetician who told me this was right (I actually doubted her, because she also told me that if I plucked my eyebrows for long enough, they would stop growing back, when in fact my body appears to have responded to my years of plucking with a pissy vengeance, sprouting stray hairs faster and more scraggly than ever before). Sure enough, she was-- about five months into my pregnancy, my drain was hair-free, a fact I took a weird and perverse pleasure in.

What she failed to tell me, though I should have guessed, is that once you stop being pregnant, all the hairs that had been desperately clinging on for dear life during the past few months fall out at once, leaving gross, damp, hamster-sized wads on the shower floor, much to my shame and, quite frankly, alarm. Because okay, that was all fine and good in the first few weeks post-partum, but seriously, it's been three months now. Since I have definitely already lost enough hair to create several different sassy styles for William Shatner (I like to think that he would use my hair as his "goin' out" 'do), I'm a little concerned that it will only be a matter of time before I am that scary woman with the gaping bald spot that everyone is trying desperately to avoid looking at.

Also concerning is Addie's newfound interest in using my hair as a handle-- specifically, the hair at the nape of my neck, which somehow always seems to escape even the tightest ponytail. So lately I've been toying the idea of returning to my old-school short hairdo, which I rocked with varying degrees of success throughout the course of my life. This is news that seems to be met with an overwhelming degree of disgust when mentioned to most parties, as though I were suggesting simply braiding my armpit hair and artfully draping it across my scalp. And I admit, there is a degree of risk associated with this move. It could turn out great, like this:

 Or it could go horribly wrong. Like fifth-grade bathrobe Victorian blouse giant denim purse wrong:

Any thoughts or advice, or tips on how to keep Addie from using my neck hair as a bridle, would be greatly appreciated.

*Let me just tell you that I spent about 20 minutes trying to come up with a clever title for this post, even going so far as to take the lazy man's titling scheme and Googling "hair quotes"; this pulled up about seventeen different links to Jessica Simpson's hair extensions line, at which point I just gave up. Evidently, though, there are many quotable things being said about this product. Good for you, Jessica Simpson!

Add-Z

I noticed right away that Addie was not a fan of lullabies-- I tried my entire repertoire, stocked with standards (including the actually-quite-ominous-if-you-really-listen-to-the-lyrics "Rock-a-bye Baby"), Muppets classics, and every song ever to reference the concept of sleep, and she responded with either complete apathy or actual displeasure, as if my rendition of "I'm So Tired" by the Beatles were stabbing her aurally in the eardrums. Singing, it seemed, was not her thing, which was quite the downer, since it is one of maybe four things I am actually good at.

It wasn't until we accidentally switched from her Addie-approved playlist to a general shuffle of my music library that we stumbled upon the answer-- Addie, it seems, loves rap music. Specifically, she loves Jay-Z, and even more specifically, she loves "99 Problems," a scathing critique of the music industry and racial stereotyping, which is evidently hilarious to babies. Luckily, I am also in possession of some awesome rap skills, so I was able to accommodate her new-found passion for rhyme-spitting.

Jay-Z is no Raffi, I guess, but if it keeps her happy, I'm totally down. That is, until she starts, you know, speaking English. Then, Jay-Z will likely be off the table.

She's got 99 problems, but a bitch ain't one

Fifteen Pounds of Awesome

The name "Eight Pounds of Awesome" is a misnomer-- at no point in her life did Addie weigh exactly eight pounds. She was born eight pounds, two ounces; lost a huge amount of weight in the first three days, leading to Epic Panic ("We'll have a skeleton baby!" I cried. "The kids at day care will call her Skeletor, and constantly attempt to vanquish her with the power of Greyskull!"), and has, ever since, been making up for her waifish first week with an unchecked eating spree that has, in the first three months, vaulted her to fifteen pounds. This means that despite the fact that she just today turned three months old, she is already rapidly outgrowing her six-month clothes and moving into nine-month ones.

This is, of course, a good thing; it means that she is healthy and growing, and probably not going to be one of those creepy kids that will just stop growing and remain the size of a two-year-old well into their teens (although that seems to be a ticket to a human interest story in both People magazine and a one-hour special on TLC). But it also means that my little baby is Growing Up, and will likely be able to steal my car and take it joyriding by the time she's one.

But for right now, she's still just a wee little baby. Although as you can see from this progression of monthly birthday pictures, she's a wee little baby that looks like she could eat her one-month-old self for breakfast.

Full Disclosure

So listen, I've been toying with the idea of a baby blog for quite some time now-- actually, since I first got pregnant (vomiting! Hemorrhoids! Cankles! General hilarity!). But, having spent most of my pregnancy in a sleepy, paranoid fugue state, the opportunity passed, which was probably for the better, unless you would have been interested in reading several discourses on my extremely gripping fear that my baby would develop a flat spot on the back of her head, forcing her to wear one of those little corrective baby football helmets.

Then when Addie arrived, her head acceptably round and not in need of helmetry, I imagined myself dedicating my maternity leave to lovingly crafting a blog as delicately designed and intricate as she herself is. But instead I spent it, you know, soaking up vomit from various surfaces and stuff.

It's only now, nearly three months in, that I find that I've learned to sufficiently manage having a baby and a life-- and in this context, "a life" means "the forty-five minutes between when Addie falls asleep and I pass out wherever I happen to have crumpled to the ground"-- so it seems this blog's time has finally come. And not a moment too soon-- I think Facebook is preparing to ban me for being overly obsessed with my baby (Really? Facebook moans, another post about your baby's weight? We get it, you have a baby. Can't you comment on, like, Justin Bieber or something?), so I needed another outlet for my motherly pride.

But before we get too far in, I would like to offer the following warnings, in the spirit of full disclosure:

1. This blog will primarily be about Addie, the greatest baby in the world. By reading this blog, you offer your tacit agreement that Addie is, in fact, superior to all other babies. 
2. Sometimes other topics will appear on this blog that are only tangentially Addie-related. Try not to get too bummed out when this happens.
3. Addie knows that Mommy likes comments. When a blog post goes uncommented on, Addie cries bitter tears of sadness for Mommy's comment whore-ness.
4. Sometimes, this blog will get sappy, or sad, or fully cheesed up with The Wonder of Parenthood. When this happens, please just remember that I am a super awesome ninja warrior of coolness, even if I do sometimes cry tears of rapturous joy when Addie smiles at me. 
5. Sometimes this blog will discuss gross things, like my boobs (which are not in and of themselves gross, I guess, but I imagine that most of you generally will have to pour lemon juice directly into your eyes to burn out the image of my shirtlessness). It will discuss poop, and vomit. There may, at some future time, be reference to my lady parts. Be prepared to throw up in your mouth a little.
6. There will be swear words on this blog, although probably not as many as there were on my previous blog, since it is, after all, a blog about a baby. However, sometimes I just need to say the word "shit." It happens.
7. I can pretend all I want that updating this blog will be a daily ritual, but let's be real for a moment: sometimes, I have to schedule in time to poop on a given day, so this goal may be a tad unrealistic. I will, however, try to post as often as I can.
8. This isn't really a disclosure, but I just want to point out that the last three things I just said were at least somehow poop-related. See? It's already starting.

So, now you know. If you like poop, and babies, this blog is for you. And if you don't, well, obviously you only remain alive by nightly ingesting a paste made of angel tears and the ground-up bones of kittens.

Chili Con Addie

This morning, I had a dream that Addie began violently pooping out all the ingredients that Ben uses to make chili.

There. That seems like a good way to start a blog.